


Reminds Me of a Friend

by ohrightwelldone



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Bilbo and Bofur write a song together and it's lovely, Bofur is a Sweetheart, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohrightwelldone/pseuds/ohrightwelldone
Summary: Bilbo only had a single year among the Company. A year is not long enough to learn an entire person’s history, or to untangle the pains of the past, but a year was enough to love and be loved. Through it all, Bofur gave him a song.





	Reminds Me of a Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This story is taken completely from the films, including some behind-the-scenes tidbits from the actors that really endeared me to Boffins. Bilbo and Bofur have such a sweet relationship, and it wasn't hard to weave together a romance from their interactions onscreen. I also wanted to add some background to the Company - Bofur and Thorin in particular - as I feel that Bilbo is shaped by them the most on his adventure. They deserve a bit of history of their own. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Oh, and a great game it is, too - if you got the balls for it!”

The dwarrow, with his absurd moustache and even more absurd hat, practically lounges by _ Bilbo’s _ stove with _ Bilbo’s _ mug in his grip. Bilbo stares up at the ceiling rather than spare another glance at him; his smug laughter rings through Bilbo’s ears just as loudly as Dwalin’s down the hall. Bilbo would snap something back if that wasn’t what he has been doing the _ entire _evening. 

He is going to strangle Gandalf. Who cares if the wizard if twice his height? He’ll get his hands on him.

_ Sigh. _What Bilbo wouldn’t give for a quiet cup of tea.

  
\-----  
  


A knot builds and builds in Bilbo’s stomach. Bag End is his home; he knows every corner, every nook, every bauble and knick-knack, and he is proud of it all. Really, it is all he has to his name: a living monument to his long-passed mother and father. It is an understatement to say that being made to be an outsider in his own dining room bothers Bilbo.

He peers from behind Thorin at the gathering, standing in the archway without a place at his table. It is not only rude, but downright insulting. Damn his Took curiosity! He can’t help but know. Although his shoulders relax at once when Balin and Dwalin make their opinions of Bilbo known.

“Aye,” Dwalin adds to Balin’s words, “the wilds are no place for folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.”

Bilbo is not going to argue with that. He gives Dwalin a nod of affirmation, pointedly ignoring the exasperated waves coming off Gandalf. And the chatter rises again.

The mustachioed dwarrow in the hat, Bifur maybe, looks Bilbo up and down with calm eyes and his mouth set firm in a line; as if this one dwarrow is giving Bilbo true consideration in having a role in this...fantastical quest. Then his mouth begins to hint at a smile, ever so warm in the lantern light.

(Years later, when Bilbo is burrowed in his bed in Bag End, he remembers Bofur’s gaze that night. He imagines brown eyes moving along his frame, seeing him as more than a harried hobbit with fussy manners - seeing him as someone with potential. On nights like that, Bilbo lies awake, burning.)

Although Bilbo laughs when he remembers how moments later, Bofur wouldn’t shut up about burning - about dragons and death and ash. He can still feel the smack of wood against the back of his head.

  
\-----  
  


“Here!” Bofur calls, and tosses some ripped fabric towards Bilbo.

He catches it and holds it between his finger and thumb as if Bofur just used it to wipe his arse. Bilbo can’t help it - it does smell filthy, and it's nearly worn down in two!

He conjures a smile, although he’s sure it’s more of a grimace, but Bofur seems to appreciate it nonetheless.

He wishes for his own handkerchief. He truly misses Bag End.

Bilbo holds onto it for days, not quite knowing what to do with the rag. He’s thought about tossing it into the trees - there’s certainly enough of them outside Hobbiton. Yet it remains tucked away in his satchel. 

Away from the fire one night, only days after he flung himself out of his door, Bilbo takes the fabric out and thumbs it. Should he give it back? No, that’s ridiculous. Bofur certainly didn’t think anything of tearing it off of...whatever he was wearing. Would throwing it away be insulting? He is a hobbit among dwarrows, and Gandalf doesn’t seem to care for minding cultural differences so he is of no help (as usual).

There’s a stain on an edge, and Bilbo squints at it, wrinkling his nose as he tries to make out if it’s something from inside his satchel, when Thorin pauses by him and scoffs.

“What’d you expect a miner to carry with him? Lace? Ribbons? If it’s that offensive to you, be rid of it.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to defend himself but Thorin stalks away, probably to brood more. _ That went bloody fantastic, didn’t it? As if the king didn’t think little of me before. _

Bilbo fingers the stained edge again, and curses Thorin silently. Because Thorin is right. Because Bilbo never did think to thank Bofur, even if he meant the gesture to be a joke or a slight.

The rag is thrown into some nearby bushes, and Bilbo finds Bofur’s left side by the fire unoccupied.

“It occurred to me that I never thanked you,” he says as he sits and warms his hands, “for giving me that rag or whatever it was when we first headed off.”

Bofur’s grin is lopsided when he replies: “No need to thank me, Master Baggins. Seeing you drop to the floor because of my harrowing tale of Smaug is thanks for a thousand gestures.”

Bofur guffaws when Bilbo grumbles into the fire.

By the end of the night, Bilbo is correcting Bofur’s many rather polite “Master Baggins”’s.

“Just Bilbo, if you please.”

“Bilbo it is, then.”

  
\-----  
  


Bofur is musical. He always seems to be humming or singing, and he wields his flute as often as his pipe.

As they reach a stone valley, Bilbo notices Bofur sing a rather disjointed song.

“I’ve never heard a song like that before.”

“Aye, probably because it’s not complete,” Bofur says, falling in step with the hobbit. “It’s a very old dwarrow song. Bifur can sing it in full, but it is hard to translate. A lot of it has been lost to time.”

Bilbo nods his head to the tune, and for some reason, starts making up a verse.

Bofur lights up like a star. For a good hour they lag behind, rhyming complete nonsense.

  
\-----  
  


Here he is, in the utterly ethereal Rivendell, a place he thought to only know in ink and dreams, and yet Bilbo is watching Bofur _ sing _to the elves.

That’s like watching an elf explain rocks to a dwarrow.

Bofur sings anyway, and he dances. It is not until he is a few lines in that Bilbo’s eyes bulge and his mouth drops open in recognition.

“The Oslar has a tipsy cat that plays a five-stringed fiddle…!”

He knows this song. Bofur taught him this song, but he is singing _ Bilbo’s verses. _

The other dwarves catch on quickly, slamming their hands and feet in tune with Bofur’s crooning.

Gloin nudges him from under the table. Bilbo turns and Gloin gives him a look that not just tells him but commands him to sing along.

_ I’m smiling, aren’t I _? Bilbo thinks, when he feels the corners of his mouth turn upward, when he allows himself to mumble along with the rowdy gathering of dwarrows. Bofur is a natural performer, and yes, it is easy to smile along with him.

And then Bilbo sees Thorin.

Thorin is _ smiling _. He tries to hide it behind his mug, but fails spectacularly with his eyes crinkled in mirth. He nods his head and taps his foot to Bofur’s voice. Thorin looks utterly content. He almost looks young.

Bilbo nearly falls off the bench.

Bilbo also nearly crawls under the table when an elf dodges a head of cabbage.

  
\-----  
  


“So what do you think? I thought it got a mighty fine reception.”

“Oh, yes, it was a wonderful sight. You, atop a table -”

“Was it a table?” Seemed a wee bit small for a - “

“_ Whatever _ it was, towering over the elves, rousing the company to spill their drink and _ throw _ their _ food _.”

“What? That’s a sign of appreciation! To both me and to those leaf-eaters. Making a mess shows you’re comfortable. It’s a sign of trust.”

“Well…” but Bilbo trails off, not sure if he is up to debating the politics of table manners from race to race. “Well, you made it sound good. My gibberish, I mean. You make most things sound good.”

Bilbo doesn’t realize what he’s said until he sees Bofur stand straighter and his smile grow softer. “Oh. Not sure about that but, it’s kind of you to say.”

Bilbo flaps his arms to his sides because, well, he doesn’t know what else to do. “Yes, um. On that note, I’m gonna go for...a walk.”

Bofur offers his company but Bilbo practically shushes him and runs off. Bilbo has found running from situational implications to be most effective. Besides, a walk gives him ample time to find a possible distraction from his flaming ears and cheeks.

_ You’d think I was a tween with my bumbling. _

Yet, among the weaving trees, the winding vines, the gardens that he sits himself in along Oin and Bifur, he still carries the song with him.

The next evening is a lovely one, and grows unexpectedly lovelier when he meets Thorin in the moonlight. It is awkward at first - they have mostly snipped at each other when silence wouldn’t do - but in the smallest voice Thorin tells him a story of fireflies, as if he is scared that his voice will spook the memory away. He is touched by Thorin’s admission; the image of a young, noble dwarrow taking refuge among those little lights in the dark is a kind one, but also profoundly sad.

(He thinks of his mother in the cool summer nights, kneeling in their garden at his side, catching fireflies and gently placing them between his palms. He can’t remember the last time he talked about his mother, besides her dishes and doilies. He can’t remember her voice.)

Bilbo struggles to find the words to convey his thoughts when Elrond and Gandalf’s conversation drifts to their ears. The stillness on Thorin’s face returns, but it looks forced. With a tight grimace, Thorin excuses himself.

The following morning Bilbo attempts to try and build on their previous conversation, but Thorin is cold in movement and tone. And it becomes worse when Dori speaks up.

“I hear we have you to thank you for our new rendition of “The Man in the Moon”, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo immediately seeks out Bofur behind them, who just grins beneath his ridiculous hat. Bilbo rolls his eyes. 

“Thank you, but my contribution was rather small,” he tells Dori. “I only thought of some words. I still couldn’t sing the rhythm right if I was asked.”

“He gave you a song?”

Bilbo jerks around to see Thorin at his front, almost knocking into him. The king’s voice is quiet. His thick, dark eyebrows are furrowed.

“I...I wouldn’t say he _ gave _it to me. He just...sought my help.”

Thorin searches Bilbo’s eyes for something, but shakes his head and stomps ahead. 

No one seems to notice Thorin’s confrontation, and the march continues along with Nori leading another rendition of Bilbo and Bofur’s song. As the company’s voices merge together, Bilbo sees Thorin’s shoulders tighten.

For the first time since he was deemed burglar, Bilbo feels like he has truly stolen something.

  
\-----  
  


Of all the company, Bilbo thinks, Fili and Kili catch his eye the most.

They function as one so often that they almost blur together to Bilbo, and yet they remain as different as the sun and moon. Bilbo spent much of the early days of their journey watching - he unable to breach the tightly-knitted company, and them unable to fully trust an outsider - through the roads and stops. Maybe because they’re young (or so, so loud) his eyes drift to the brothers the most, and he sees who they drift to: their uncle, needless to say, and Dwalin, who acts much like a tough-hided uncle. They mesh well with Ori, and Bilbo finds himself dragged by the arm into their circle as they dream up what Erebor will reveal itself to be. Kili talks with Bifur and Oin a lot - probably because he can talk as much as he wants, but both appear glad for the chatter. Fili with his braided mane could pass for a cousin of the Ris - and his humour seems to match the clan as well, especially Nori. Gloin takes a liking to Fili, too. As time passes and Bilbo not only listens but encourages Gloin’s many tales of his beautiful (and Bilbo can see the beauty in her profile) wife and cheeky son, Fili always pipes up to add a comment on young Gimli somehow. He seems determined to encourage Gimli’s temper and wit, and Bilbo does not know if he wants to see the result of Fili’s efforts. 

Kili and Bilbo aid Bombur with cooking (even though Kili’s contributions are mostly strands of hair, to both Bilbo and Bombur’s rage) and their concoctions are guaranteed to bring over Bofur.

He would never say so, but Bilbo takes pride in how much Bofur compliments his cooking.

“Never thought I’d meet a match for Bombur,” he quips with a wink, and Bilbo refuses to blush.

Both of the king’s nephews get along with Bofur, and they seem as close with him at times as they do with Thorin or Dwalin. He asks about it one night when him, the brothers, and Ori are gathered together mending and cleaning.

“We thought Bofur would be part of the family at one point,” Kili all but blurts before Fili stomps on his foot.

Ori and Bilbo exchange a wide-eyed stare.

“Oh, for…” Fili shrugs off his brother’s glare. “Look, Uncle won’t appreciate us telling ya this, but yeah, Bofur was close with our uncle, and they seemed to be approaching courtship.”

“Miners are treated to an annual feast by the royal family, seeing as how a miner uncovered the heart of the mountain and selflessly gave it to the royal family, and that’s where they originally met,” Kili says.

“But they met again after Erebor’s fall because of us. Bofur sold his and Bifur’s toys at a stall, and the two of us found his wares one day and dragged Thorin along.”

“A miner?” Ori squeaks. “A miner courting the heir of the throne?”

“We _ thought _they would court. We teased them both day and night about it, but they always refused. Even our mother couldn’t get a word out of Uncle, and our mother could probably steal the clothes off his back without him realizing.”

“We saw Bofur as often as Dwalin years ago, but Bifur’s injury kept him at home or at work more often than not as we got older. It doesn’t help that our uncle isn’t the,” Kili pursed his lips in thought, “easiest person to deal with.”

Bilbo swallows the lump in his throat. “It is certainly difficult to imagine the two of them in love.”

“Well, _ we _say that there was something there,” Fili corrects. “Neither of them either did. They looked lovesick - acted it, too. Who’s to say that we weren’t just desperate for Thorin to nurture something for himself rather than....” Fili punctuated his thoughts with a sweeping gesture of the campsite.

It’s true, Bilbo admits. Thorin is not one to say much of anyone else, but he is also one to not say much about himself, or even his kingship. It’s always about Erebor - the lonely mountain.

The lonely mountain, Bilbo dwells, is a rather perfect descriptor of Thorin.

Ori is still stuck on the idea of such classes mixing, and the conversation spins into a fury of teasing that concerns Ori and Dwalin and class and custom, but Bilbo struggles to remain afloat in it all.

  
\-----  
  


Bilbo goes to gather extra wood that night. As he stacks piece upon piece, he thinks of a young king smiling at a dust-covered miner over a wagon of toys and the tops of his nephews’ heads, and receiving a smile in return.

The sticks slip from his arms.

Bilbo is about to groan to the sky when footsteps approach.

“Need help there, Bilbo?”

Bofur is illuminated in firelight, and he is smiling. Bilbo smiles in return.

  
\---  
  


In the fields surrounding Beorn’s house, the company is fresh with new enthusiasm. Even Thorin seems rested, his stormy eyes calm.

Bilbo and Bofur are drawn to each other as they walk through the green grass. While Bilbo leaves most of his gardening to Hamfast, like any respectable hobbit Bilbo knows flowers. Bofur asks, so Bilbo teaches.

It’s hard not to be distracted by the dwarrow. He’s left his hat with his coat inside the house, and his numerous braids swing freely in the breeze. Tiny strands of gold peak out from his deep brown locks, and they twirl and tangle through his plaits.

Bilbo feels eyes on him, and when he draws his eyes away from Bofur’s hair, he is met with Bofur’s gaze. There’s something knowing in Bofur’s look, but he doesn’t say anything. If Bilbo didn’t know any better, he’d say that the dwarrow was turning pink.

“You must grow plenty of these around your hobbit hole.”

“Oh, many of those do grow around Bag End, unfortunately,” Bilbo explains. “We call them dandelions. They’re a weed, however. It’s best to pull them out as soon as you can - roots and all.”

“But why? They’re some of the prettiest flowers I’ve seen.”

“They choke up everything else you plant, and they’re bastards to get rid of.”

Bofur’s mouth twitches to a grin at Bilbo’s colourful language, but he is always rather amused at Bilbo’s grumbling. “Then that’s even better. They’re good and hardy, and pretty to boot.”

“Hmm. Like a few certain dwarrows, I suppose.”

“And particular hobbits, I would say.”

  
\-----  
  


“I’m terribly sorry.”

Bofur peers up at Bilbo from his food. 

“For what I said to you in the caves, before that nasty troll business. No, wait, let me finish - I need to say this. It was awful of me to say what I did, and I can never take it back.” Bilbo’s fingers knot together, nervous but determined. “But I wanted to let you know that what I said to Thorin was because of you. We will reclaim your home, and if you ever get tired of all that stone, or just need a home away from home, well, my door will always be open to yo - all of you.”

He catches himself just in time. He waits for Bofur to speak. Bofur chews a bite, swallows, and then puts his plate on the ground. He stands and takes Bilbo’s hand between his own.

“I’ll show you through the entirety of Erebor. I’ll find you a gem as green as your front door.”

Bilbo’s breath quivers when Bofur touches his forehead with his own. Bilbo decides he is in love.

  
\-----  
  


During their last night at Beorn’s, Bofur kisses Bilbo by the woodpile. He smells like smoke, and tastes a bit like fish.

It is the loveliest kiss Bilbo has ever known.

  
\-----  
  


Like anyone, Bofur is rather flawed.

His teasing can get rough, and sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop. He can also be rather crude at the most inappropriate times, and he is impulsive.

Twice he has spoken up before Thorin when a leader was needed, and it did not go unnoticed.

This, Bilbo doesn’t really care about. Bilbo respects authority, and he respects Thorin’s position. But when they are lost in Mirkwood or scrambling from enemies, someone needs to make a quick decision. So, Bofur does.

Now, Bofur faces the consequences.

Thorin and Bofur are arguing, quietly, while the company sits to the side and pretends not to watch. Well, at least Bilbo does. The rest of them might as well be enjoying a play.

Bilbo tries to sneak a look at them, only to see Thorin practically red in the face. Bofur looks rather dismissive of it all, and Thorin doesn’t appear to like that.

As the arguing rises, Bilbo wonders if he should interfere. He doesn’t want to get inbetween the two dwarrows, and it’s none of his business, but surely Bofur doesn’t deserve this much anger. He stands up only to be stopped by Balin.

“I think you should sit yourself down, Master Baggins,” Balin tells him.

“You don’t think Thorin is being a bit...much?”

Balin twists his mouth, containing a chuckle. “Thorin is always a bit much. Been that way since he was a babe. But there’s more to this than just rank.”

Bilbo looks at the two again. Thorin’s voice is loud and his face is red, but his eyes are pleading, his hands are shaking.

Bofur’s hands slide from his hips and he sighs, looking at Thorin with something Bilbo can’t place. He puts a hand on Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin’s voice stumbles briefly. He almost seems to melt.

Bilbo thinks he might understand what Balin was trying to say.

  
\-----  
  


Laketown is wet. Laketown is on a lake. Laketown is awful.

Looking at the damp and weary dwarrows, Bilbo guesses that it is a close contest between Laketown and Mirkwood being the worst place in existence. He knows they would all shout Mirkwood in a heartbeat, but Laketown has crowded humans and slimy fish and air that hangs with moisture.

Bilbo is, frankly, miserable.

Bofur must sense his despair, as he gives him his mittens. They’re much too big for Bilbo, but they are warm from Bofur’s hands, and Bilbo can’t help but smile at them.

At least the mountain lingers over the town. Erebor is in reach, and yet so terrifyingly far.

Thorin keeps to himself, drawn to every window or deck that gives him a glimpse of his home.

After Balin’s harrowing tale of the fall, Bilbo walks up to Thorin’s side as he stands by the window. 

“We’re almost there,” Bilbo reassures. “I can’t wait to see it restored.”

It takes a minute for Thorin to realize Bilbo is there, and as he looks at him, digesting what he said, Thorin’s mouth turns upward and his blue eyes are tired yet bright.

“Thank you, Bilbo,” and with a squeeze of Bilbo’s wrist, “truly.”

  
\-----  
  


The dwarrows are too exhausted, too manic to sort out any proper room order. The company is scattered among the beds, which Bilbo sees as an opportunity to take advantage of.

He sees Bofur and Dwalin practically shoved into one room by the attending servant. _ Perfect! _

Bilbo launches himself at Ori and drags the young dwarrow to the closest free room. The servant flicks her hand dismissively and groups the next set of the company.

As soon as the hallway clears, Bilbo meets his Ori’s gaze, and they don’t have to say anything.

Their plan proves entirely unnecessary when Bofur is suddenly tossed through their door and Dwalin stands there, arm out and waiting. 

Ori’s eyes twinkle with delight. “Enjoy yourselves!” he quips, jumping over Bofur on the floor and linking his arm through Dwalin’s. 

The door slams shut.

Bofur still hasn’t moved, so Bilbo kneels down by his head. “And here I was hoping that _ you _would be that eager to see me.”

Bofur’s eyes are covered by his hat, but his grin speaks volumes. “And what quicker way to get to you than to mention Ori to him?”

Bilbo laughs, and covers Bofur’s mouth with a kiss.

  
\-----  
  


The humans of Laketown are desperate for something to celebrate. Their energy is palpable in every wooden board and gust of wind. The dwarrows are also ready to give in and have fun. Balin regales a group of children in a corner with the stories carried from Erebor. Bifur carves away by an old man who nods appreciatively as the trinket comes together. Kili is missing however, his illness putting him to bed. Fili is in and out, joining the revelry but checking on his brother.

Bilbo offers to give Fili a break, and Fili hugs his shoulder appreciatively.

Upstairs, Bilbo gives Kili some water, and pushes his hair off his sticky forehead. It’s not getting better. Shouldn’t Thorin get some help?

He goes to Thorin’s room to say something, even though he knows it will just go through one ear and out the other. Thorin’s room is empty, but Bilbo stops when he hears voices coming from the deck.

He steps closer, enough so he can peer through the window. Thorin and Bofur sit side by side; Bofur’s flute in his lap.

Bofur asks him to eat, to join them downstairs, to sit with Kili, but Thorin only shakes his head, his shoulders bowed.

“How about a song then, at least?” Bofur asks, raising his flute. 

Thorin mutters something that Bilbo cannot hear, but Bofur’s voice rings clear.

“This song will always be for you.” Then his flute meets his lips, and the wind fills with music.

The song is...heavy, for lack of a better word. When it meets Bilbo’s ears, it feels slow, steady. It reminds him of a broom brushing along the grain. Thorin doesn’t move through it all, and the two dwarrows sit forward, the mountain’s shadow reaching towards them.

The last notes go silent, and Bilbo turns away, ashamed of intruding on what should have been a private moment. Before he leaves, he hears Thorin sigh a trembling breath.

  
\-----  
  


“You do realize we are missing someone? Where’s Bofur?”

How Thorin can dismiss not one but _ four _of his dwindling company (his own nephews, at that) is beyond Bilbo’s comprehension. He waits for a floppy hat to pop out of the crowds, but the boat departs and the crowd of faces start to pass.

When water is greeting them at all sides, Bilbo reaches Thorin at the head of the boat. “Don’t we need every body available? Why leave Bofur when we have to leave Kili and Fili?”

Thorin’s gaze is fixed on the mountain across the water. Bilbo sighs and moves to retreat to his seat when he hears Thorin’s voice over the wind.

“This was never his dream,” he almost whispers, eyes always on the mountain. But Bilbo sees Thorin’s fingers clench over his chest, and he says nothing.

  
\-----  
  


The air shivers with a roar. A giant shadow streaks its way through the sky towards a wooden town afloat on the water.

Bilbo watches the dragon grow smaller, and then an orange glow erupts from the dark.

He thinks of Kili barely able to stand, of Fili’s last bitter words to his uncle. He thinks of Oin: sharp but stubborn, refusing to give up on the young one. Bofur is there somewhere, and neither Bilbo nor his brothers could find him in the crowds when they were shuffled into a boat.

Smoke begins to rise, and Bilbo hears himself ask, “What have we done?”

  
\-----  
  


Kili’s skin has colour again; his eyes are dark and lively. Bofur, Oin, and Fili are in good health as well, and Bilbo would very much like to keep it that way. He tries to rush out a warning, but Fili comes to understanding too quick and darts ahead.

They follow, Bilbo telling him to stay away, but they find the rolling hills of treasure and Thorin in the middle of it all.

“Welcome, my sister-sons, to Erebor,” Thorin booms, the circles under his eyes as dark as his beard.

Fili’s face is frozen in shock. His head shakes, and he slowly backs away from the glow of the gold.

Bofur looks to Bilbo. Worry etches itself in the creases between his eyebrows. Bilbo doesn’t know what to say, so he holds his hand.

  
\-----  
  


Thorin’s skin glistens in the dark. It terrifies Bilbo - it reminds him of his father’s fever that took him: the constant wetness under his eyes and across his brow. Thorin’s long, dark hair, what first caught Bilbo’s eye when Thorin first sauntered through his door, hangs limp with dirt and grease. 

And through it all, he demands Bilbo at his side.

No one says anything about it, but they look to Bilbo, and their concern almost drips into the gold.

Bilbo feels like a possession. Even Dwalin and Balin are kept at a greater distance while Bilbo stands above them by Thorin’s cobwebbed throne. And he doesn’t know _ why _. Maybe it is because he is a hobbit, therefore less likely to jump at his treasure; but then he remembers Thorin’s blade across his chest when Bilbo tried to abandon the Arkenstone, and he knows he is wrong.

In another story, Bilbo wonders if this would be some tragic romance: a king consumed by greed forcing his beloved into a living trophy at his side. But Bilbo knows that this is not that story, and by all that is good he is grateful for it.

But something sinister lingers about Thorin’s sudden attachment. Sometimes the real Thorin breaks through with his gaze, or the nod of his head, the softening of his voice. But it is exhausting searching for the crumbs of the dwarrow Bilbo found himself following through valleys, storms and battles...the dwarrow Bilbo called friend.

Why not Bofur, Bilbo wonders, if Thorin is going to be possessive of anyone? He does not wish this fear on Bofur, and he shudders at the thought of Bofur trying to reassure everyone he is fine as Thorin barks a command in his face. But Bofur and Thorin have history, and despite Thorin’s best efforts, he knows Thorin does not like Bilbo’s attachment to Bofur, or Bofur’s attachment to him.

One morning, as he stands at Thorin’s side, itching to just slip the ring onto his finger and escape, Bofur comes with Ori, Balin and Dwalin.

They attempt conversation with the king, and Bilbo realizes they are trying to give him an out. He slowly steps closer to Dwalin’s side, thankful that the towering dwarrow is nearly the size of two Oris, when he sees just how Thorin looks at his company.

And Bilbo is _ enraged_.

Thorin’s gaze swipes over them like mud on his heel. His eyes, bloodshot and dry, only linger to mock. He smirks at Ori’s tattered mittens, and everyone can notice. Ori stumbles in his words but continues on. Dwalin looks ready to murder the leader he has sworn his very life to.

When Thorin decides to acknowledge Bofur’s presence, he crinkles his nose in disgust, and leans away, apparently done with them all.

Bilbo can see the dragon whisper in Thorin’s ears: _ the dust-covered miner belongs in the dust. Let him lay with his kindred where he should - beneath his king, beneath this hoarde. _ Then Bilbo brushes shoulders with Bofur as he stands beside him, and Thorin’s eyes flicker back at the touch, and the dragon whispers again: _ the burglar would steal from your fingers. The burglar will take him. _

Bilbo finally understands. He keeps Bilbo close because he is an outsider, valuing acorns over Thorin’s shiny objects. He keeps Bilbo close because he knows what Bilbo values..._ who _Bilbo values. 

Thorin keeps his company at a distance, but he keeps his potential friends (and potential enemies) within his reach.

  
\-----  
  


Bilbo used to join Bofur on his watch. Underneath the stars, away from the stink of death and emptiness, it is easier to breathe. They even laugh together as they exchange stories of the sky. Bilbo is surprised that dwarrows even have names and myths for the constellations, but they connect their stars together and form figure after figure, and Bilbo thinks everything may be okay as long as Bofur is at his side.

After one shift, Bilbo watches Bofur go, and then departs on the opposite staircase only to be grabbed in the shadows. Thorin’s eyes are burning - almost glowing.

“Careful where you wander,” Thorin says, after Bilbo demands an explanation. “This is not your home. You know not where you go or what you take.”

Bilbo flinches at the word “take”. He knows what this is really about.

“Erebor is still very much covered in darkness. It would be quite easy for a hobbit to roam too far,” Thorin leans closer, “and disappear.”

Bilbo does not join Bofur under the stars anymore.

  
\-----  
  


The Arkenstone is lighter than the ring ever was; it rubs against his rib behind his jacket.

This could be a terrible idea, but Bilbo can’t stand aside and watch Thorin grow worse with every passing day.

He forgets Bofur would be on watch.

But Bofur, though his eyes are downcast, forces a smile. “Bombur is on watch next. It’ll take awhile to rouse him. You’ll have some time.”

He thinks Bilbo is abandoning them. Bilbo almost tells him everything, and his hand clenches around the Arkenstone.

“Bofur,” he calls, and Bofur turns to him.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Bilbo says, reassuringly, pleading that Bofur will somehow understand everything he cannot say.

Bofur just tilts his head. He doesn’t believe him, and yet his smile is warm. “Go, and be safe. Farewell, Bilbo.”

  
\-----  
  


Thorin’s hands are around his neck. There is only sky under Bilbo’s head.

Suddenly he is down on the stones again, and instead there’s gentle hands on his back, on his shoulders.

“Run, Bilbo,” Bofur says in his ear, and kisses his cheek so quickly that Bilbo barely feels it. “Go.”

  
\-----  
  


Thorin’s eyes are finally clear, only to cloud with tears. Desperately he tries to say so much, and despite Bilbo’s urges to keep his breath, Thorin goes on.

So many apologies caked in blood. Bilbo can’t bear to hear them.

Thorin’s face soon becomes peaceful, and it worries Bilbo. He looks too content when his blood is webbing through the snow.

“Farewell, Master Burglar.”

A cry tries to escape Bilbo’s throat, but he forces it down as Thorin recites Bilbo’s words of home to him perfectly. To know Thorin valued Bilbo’s home as much as his own…

Bilbo meets Thorin’s eyes, and Thorin’s breath hitches.

“No, no no no, Thorin. Thorin! Thorin, _ please. _”

The eagles have come, but Thorin never sees them.

  
\-----  
  


Fili should have been king, Bilbo thinks bitterly, staring at the three bodies side-by-side. Fili was good and kind, horrified by his uncle’s sudden greed, frustrated by the mountains of treasure. Fili was sun-bright, warm and inviting as any fire in a hearth.

Fili was dead.

As was Kili, with his hair that refused to hold a braid, and his pathetic, patchy beard. Never again would Kili twirl Bilbo around to Dwalin’s fiddle, and never again would Kili reach a helping hand to those in need, not caring if they were dwarrow or elf, human or hobbit. The last time Kili laughed was days before his death, when Gloin tripped over some rubble and Kili swore to tell Gimli about his spectacular flailing.

Thorin breaks Bilbo. His face is so pale and calm, so at rest. Bilbo hates it. Thorin should be shouting a war cry, scolding his nephews, snickering and conspiring with Dwalin.

Thorin should be at Bofur’s side, listening to a flute-song.

Bofur wanders through Erebor after Dain’s coronation. Bilbo waits up for him, and Bofur always comes back with a story or two of the three Durins and their endless antics. He laughs and laughs until he cries.

  
\-----  
  


Two weeks after the coronation, Bilbo starts to pack.

“You’re leaving?”

Bilbo nods, unready to confirm it out loud. Erebor is suffocating. There are too many ghosts. “I am tired of the world, all of it,” he had told Gandalf after Thorin bled out. “I just want to go home.”

Bofur wilts, but he gives a gentle nod of understanding.

There is a silence waiting to be filled. The question pounds against Bilbo's ribcage: “Do you want to come with me? Do you want to stay with me, in Bag End?” The idea of Bofur in his kitchen, playing his flute as Bilbo makes a batch of biscuits, is one that has to come to Bilbo in many a daydream.

Then the ring grows heavy in his pocket, and it whispers. Bilbo sees a raven-haired king with a noble heart but a dragon's voice in his ear.

He can't see Bofur suffer through it all again. Bilbo can't doom him to watch Bilbo follow the same path as Thorin. He won't.

Bilbo says nothing. Neither does Bofur. The ring whispers again and Bilbo almost reaches for it, but instead Bilbo wraps his arms around Bofur and pulls him close.

For this moment, he lets himself be selfish and keep Bofur to himself.

Just this moment.

  
\-----  
  


When the company sees him off, Bilbo almost falls apart. He manages a joke, even a chuckle.

Bofur’s cheeks are streaked with tears.

Bilbo can't breathe suddenly, and he leaves. He tries to touch Balin on the shoulder as he goes, but he doesn’t think he really deserves to. Not when he is leaving them...leaving _ him _.

If Gandalf hears him sob through the nights, he is kind enough to not say anything in the mornings.

  
\-----  
  


He sends letters. Letter after letter until he is sure a room in Erebor must be dedicated to storing them.

Bofur can’t read - Bilbo knows this, but he knows someone under the mountain must, and he hopes that they read it to him.

He only ever gets one response, which is one letter more than he ever expected to receive.

_ I can still hear your voice, even though it is Ori and Balin who reads your letters. I miss your voice. I miss you. _

_ I love you. _

  
\-----  
  


_ I love you, too. _

_ I am sorry... _

For everything, Bilbo thinks, unsure of what to write next. He is sorry for how they both seem destined for sadness. How they are so tethered to their homes that they can’t separate from them. Sorry for how it is just too frightening to give into their feelings after all that pain. How love is too dangerous - too much of an adventure anymore. How they will have to wait until the next life, the next world, whatever the next step is - to find each other again.

He finishes the letter, and a familiar tune comes to his mind, and he sings it for his home to hear.

  
\-----  
  


Like the ring, the song is always there.

How Thorin must have felt all that time - with all these voices meshing and demanding and swirling. It is hard to hear himself sometimes. The song helps. It brings him back to the moment, to Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.

He hums it one morning, as he helps his young lad tidy his books.

“What's that song you always sing?” Frodo asks, plopping back onto his bed. “I don't think it's any one that I know.”

Bilbo stills. He thinks of a dwarrow with a floppy hat and tangled braids. He remembers kind eyes, a teasing voice, a pair of open and warm arms. Bilbo sees Bofur in tears, and Bofur in mourning.

“Something silly I wrote during my travels, about some man in the moon,” he says in a tone that doesn't invite questions. It hurts to think of Bofur. It's impossible to say his name aloud.

  
\-----  
  


“Bofur?” 

“Sorry, Bilbo, what did you say?”

What _ did _he say? The name is familiar, and it reminds him of a kind face. The name is almost musical…

Bilbo’s bones ache. He feels so old, so withered.

“Hmm...I'm not quite sure. Maybe something from a dream, my boy.”

He is too tired to look up at his boy - for he will always be a boy to him - but he feels Frodo rest his cheek against his head. His dark locks tickle Bilbo's scalp. The carriage rocks over a bump in the road. Bilbo sleeps.

  
\-----  
  


Through the sunlight, Bilbo sees Elrond stretch out his arm. The boat glimmers, and the water shines.

He can hear a lovely song on the wind.

Bilbo brightens. “I think I am...quite ready for another adventure.” 

  
  



End file.
